


The Hangover

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Las Vegas Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:38:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: Sansa wants to be a good Maid of Honor at Margaery's wedding.  She really does.  But she just can't seem to remember what she got up to last night.In which Sansa wakes up with a ring on her finger and no clue as to how it got there.





	The Hangover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bex_xo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bex_xo/gifts), [sarahcakes613](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/gifts), [vanillacoconuts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillacoconuts/gifts), [Jillypups](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/gifts).



> For my Noodle Sisters, whose support means everything. 
> 
> Okay, so... a few notes here:  
> 1) This story moves really fast. Crazy fast, it's a bit frantic. But it has to, because...  
> 2) It had to be a one-shot. It had to. Even so...  
> 3) There is an awful lot going on here. Really, so much to explore, I could go on and on, but...  
> 4) It was getting so blasted long! I mean, look how long it is! It's the longest chapter I've ever done, and my brain couldn't handle it. So I started whittling away, excising the unnecessary parts to make it shorter, but...  
> 1) that just made it move really really fast. Sorry about that! Hope you have fun with it anyway!

Sansa Stark felt like crap, every molecule screaming as she stretched unhappily under her hotel sheets and pulled a pillow over her eyes. Usually she loved sunlight, couldn’t get enough of it, but right now… she hated that effing sun.

Not as much as she hated her phone, though, and if she had any energy whatsoever she would have chucked it across the room. Instead she hit ‘answer’ and weakly lifted the cursed thing to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey there, party girl, wanted to make sure Loras got you in safe.  How you feeling?”

Oh, hell.  Why did it have to be the _bride?_

“Feeling great,” she lied.  “Why do you ask?”

“You _sound_ great.”  Margaery’s tinkling laughter echoed loudly through the phone like shards of broken glass in Sansa’s ear.  “Did I wake you?”

“No, no, I’m… just about to walk out the door.”

“Okay, good. Oh my god, Sansa, I’m getting married today!  Can you believe it?”

No, actually, she could not, and dragging herself out of bed she remembered that that was _exactly_ why she had gotten so wasted last night.   

Her ex-fiancé had been just the worst boyfriend ever, and Sansa had been glad to dodge the marriage bullet with him… until her best friend started dating him instead. To make matters worse, Margie was always talking about how _dreamy_ Joffrey was, how _wonderful_ and _considerate_ and _the absolute best,_ words that Sansa had never been able to use in describing her own relationship with him. It hurt her in a way that she’d never thought possible- she had always believed that the problem was with _Joffrey,_ but Margaery’s happiness meant the problem was with _Sansa_ and she didn’t understand that at all.

Serving as Maid of Honor for their wedding had proven to be a harder pill to swallow than she had anticipated, and she had blunted her feelings with copious amounts of red wine. But it wasn’t that she was actually disappointed that Joff was marrying Margaery; it was that everyone else thought she _should_ be.

“Try to be happy for them- she’s your _friend,”_ a well-wisher had told her, patting her gently on the shoulder as if she’d been pouting in a corner.

“It’ll be soon for you, I’m sure,” several others had said, and seriously, what the hell? Why did everyone believe she was sitting there secretly wishing she could be getting married? She wasn’t even _dating_ anyone- and perfectly happy being single, thank you very much- but everyone seemed to think she was a problem that needed to be sorted, and that unwavering pity had sent her fleeing to the open bar.  The last thing she could remember clearly was softly weeping to the bartender. Past that… nothing.

Sansa splashed cold water on her face and rested her hands on the sink, examining herself in the bathroom mirror. Well, she didn’t look too terrible. Tired, yes, but overall you couldn’t tell just how hungover she was, how her eyeballs felt too big for her head and her stomach felt full of thumbtacks. Which was good, since she had a wedding to be in, and an obligation to support the bride. The bride, who was her very best friend in the whole world. Who was marrying Sansa’s ex-fiancé. Sighing at her reflection, she reached up to swipe a stray lock of hair from her eyes...   

And that’s when she saw it.

_Oh god, what have I done?_

The band was unfamiliar but somehow fit perfectly, a mass of delicate gold vines circling her finger and glinting in the harsh bathroom lights like it was mocking her. No. It couldn’t be. It could not be. 

Sansa looked back up at the panicked eyes of her reflection and silently ordered that girl to relax. It didn’t have to be the portent of doom she assumed it was; it could just be a joke. Yes, it was probably a joke, and very easy to fix. She’d seen enough movies to know how this worked- marrying in Vegas wasn’t the end of the world, people did it and undid it all the time. The problem of course was when they drunkenly consummated their union, sealing the deal before they’d even sobered up, and if that’s what had happened with her…  

Quickly she took stock of what she was wearing- an oversized t-shirt and cotton undies, last night’s slinky black dress and lacy panties folded neatly in a chair and… Huh. It sure _seemed_ like nothing unusual had happened, like she’d gotten her own self ready for bed even if she couldn’t remember it. Or maybe someone else did it for her. Maybe the very same person who put this ring on her finger. And she had not one clue as to who that person was.

Think, Sansa, think. What was it Margie said?  _Wanted to make sure Loras got you in safe.’_ Okay, so… Loras brought her here? He was definitely a happy-go-lucky guy, the type of man to marry her for funsies then tuck her into bed undefiled, but... surely she had not married Loras, surely even DrunkSansa knew better than that. But maybe he’d know where to start.  

The damning golden evidence of her bad decision went straight into the pocket of her purse, then she showered, grabbed her makeup bag and dress, and headed down to the main lobby of the High Valyrian.   

* * *

The HiVee, as the locals called it, was the most elaborate, most exclusive, most _expensive_ hotel in Las Vegas. Joffrey no doubt thought he was making things easy on himself when he insisted the wedding take place in Vegas, especially when Margaery swiftly agreed. He really should have known better. No simple elopement with the requisite two witnesses for _this_ woman; no, by the time the festivities began last Sunday the wedding party had swelled to nine bridesmaids, eight groomsmen, three flower girls, and every guest she could think to invite, all of whom had descended on the High Valyrian to party hearty on the Tyrell dime. It had been a blast, truly… except for this one small blip. A blip she couldn’t even remember.   

“Sansa, you’re alive,” Loras smiled when he saw her, pecking her on each cheek while she searched him for clues. “I had my doubts.”

“Yeah, wild night, right?”

“Sure was,” he drawled, and winked as if they were sharing a joke.  “Though mine got a lot wilder after I left you with Myrcella.”  

“Mmmmhmmmm…” she hummed.  “Hey, can you point me towards the bridal suite?”

It was with a brand new skip in her step that she trotted off to find the bride, relieved to learn that it had in fact been a joke, just as she suspected- she was with Myrcella last night, and had not gotten married at all!  Or hey, maybe she’d married Myrcella. Wouldn’t that be the kicker in this damnable wedding week, the nail in Cersei’s coffin. It would actually be _worth_ a divorce to see the look of horror on that woman’s face.  

 _“There’s_ the Matron of Honor,” Megga announced cheerfully when Sansa breezed into the room.

 _“Maid_ of Honor, dear,” Cersei corrected with a condescending smile.  “Sansa’s unmarried. Remember?”

“Happily unmarried,” Sansa agreed, hoping it was true.

The bridal suite was teeming with ladies all jockeying for position in front of the mirrors. Sansa greeted Margaery, grabbed half a bagel to settle her stomach, and was just about to start doing her hair when Myrcella landed on the cushioned bench beside her.

“Hey. Thanks for covering for me last night.”

“Yeah, totally, of course,” she nodded as if she knew exactly what she was talking about.

“I hadn’t spent any time with Trystane in forever, not since mother forbade me from seeing him. Your support really meant a lot.”  

“Sure, any time.”

“Did you have a nice time with Arys?” she asked, voice low, and Sansa’s heart dropped right into her stomach.

“Yep,” she squeaked. “Nice time. Great time. Yes, indeedy.”

“Thought so,” Myrcella giggled.  “You two seemed pretty cozy when I left you.”   

Maybe she was imagining it, but there was something about the way she said _‘cozy’_ that seemed like she meant something else- something awful- and Sansa looked back to the mirror, barely keeping her emotions in check.  _Arys Oakheart?_  Oh come _on,_ DrunkSansa. Surely she had not married Arys- she had literally zero interest in Arys- though he had always sorta seemed to have a thing for _her._ Had he played on her emotions, manipulated her into some sham of a marriage? It didn’t seem entirely unlikely.  Especially with the mountain of evidence piling up around her.

“Picture time, ladies!” the wedding planner shouted, sweeping through the room and clapping her hands like they were a class of kindergartners. “Where are my flower girls?”

Sansa had barely started her hair and makeup- looked a bit like a washed-up muppet if she was being perfectly honest- but quickly refocused on the problem at hand and completely ignored the _other_ problem at hand. If it was true that she was married to Arys- and she was starting to think it was- then she would have to worry about it some other time. Or never.     

“Bridesmaids, you’re up!” the planner called twenty minutes later, and after only a few more moments of spraying and stippling and blending, Sansa made her way back out to the lobby to have her picture taken.

She was the last one to arrive and she immediately headed over to the group of eight women and seven men, all dressed to the nines, all cheerfully conversing.  Arys was there, and the smile he gave her made her stomach dissolve though she tried her best to return it and _not_ run screaming from the hotel.  

“Sandor’s over there,” Alla told her, motioning to her left. “Antisocial, as usual.”

And there was the missing groomsman, the one who would be her escort for the evening, standing in a relatively quiet corner of the lobby.  Alone.  

Wedding protocol dictated that attendants be paired up by size, meaning Sansa knew immediately who she’d wind up with. And she’d been pleased at the very idea. The others thought him aloof at best, an asshole at worse, but she didn’t mind him. At this point, she actually kinda liked being around him though the reason she felt that way wasn’t something she chose to dwell on.   

“You look nice,” she told him when she reached him, and gave him a tight smile as she took his arm.  

“You too.”

They lapsed into silence, just the two of them alone in a corner while she tried to think of something to say- something that had nothing to do with unplanned weddings- but drawing nothing but blanks. How funny it was that he used to be her sole source of comfort in this group of misfits, that she used to look forward to seeing him, but now found him awkward to be around.  Not funny in a ha-ha sort of way, of course, but funny in a heart-breaking, tragic way. There had always been something simmering between them, just under the surface, something she'd never been willing to name and now... well, now she couldn't name it even if she wanted to.  Not if she was no longer single.  

“Where’s your ring, little bird?”

It was several very long seconds before she understood what he was asking because... how did he know about her ring?  Had he been there?  Did someone tell him?  Was he judging her?  Was he disappointed?

She dropped her eyes quickly so he couldn’t see her thoughts, couldn’t see her shame… and that’s when she saw _it_. The mocking golden vines on his finger, glinting in the exact same way hers had glinted that morning, a matching version of her own except on _him_ the delicate ring looked absurdly out of place.

“Little bird?  Did you hear me?”

Oh, she’d heard him, alright. She just kinda wanted to pretend he wasn’t there right now, kinda wanted to pretend he didn’t exist at all.    

“Did you _lose_ it already?”

“It’s in my purse,” she answered stupidly, ironically offended that he’d accuse her of being so irresponsible with _jewelry._

The bored look he usually wore was now stretched into a smirk, his expression one of amusement though she failed to see what was so funny. Not when she couldn’t even _breathe_ properly, and her head was swimming, and dear lord it was unbearably hot in there. 

Oh god, how? Why? She’d known Sandor Clegane for years, had thought there was something between them, thought maybe they could _be_ something. If he wanted. But this… how could she ever forgive him for _this?_

“Couldn’t you have asked me on a _date_ before you ruined my life?” she hissed.

“Nah, why bother?”

“Why bother?” she echoed, incredulous. “A date is too much to ask for, but _marrying_ me is better?  Why would you _do_ that?”

“I wanted to,” he shrugged.

“Didn’t you think I’d regret it in the morning?”

“Oh yeah, absolutely knew you’d regret it.”

“But you did it anyway,” she concluded. “That’s very nice. Very considerate. Oh god, Sandor, _why?”_

“Because I wanted to. Didn’t I already say that?”

“Alright, you two, your turn,” the photographer bellowed cheerfully, waving them out of their (really unbearably hot and stuffy) corner and onto the sweeping steps of the HiVee’s main lobby.  Five excruciating minutes and three stiff poses later they were finally dismissed, and soon they were back in that same corner, on the same topic of conversation.

“I was drunk.”

“I noticed.”

“You took advantage of a drunk woman,” she accused him hotly.  The _nerve_ of him!

“More like the other way around, since it was your idea.”

“But you _wanted_ to.”

“Hell yeah, I wanted to,” he protested, almost defensively, then showed her a leering smirk.  “Especially after all those things you promised to do for me.”

Sansa recoiled.  Oh no.  No no no.  Did that mean… did he… had they… Oh god.

“We can get an annulment,” she suggested in a thin, hopeful voice, floating the idea out there just to test the waters, to see if her fears were warranted.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but we don’t qualify,” he rasped, waggling his eyebrows like a cartoon villain.

“Oh... ohhhhh my _god!”_ she shrieked. How could this be? How could she have forgotten... _that?_  It couldn’t have happened, it couldn’t! Could it? The last thing she remembered was being at the bar, then she was waking up alone in her own bed… in her oversized t-shirt and cotton panties. “Did you change my clothes?”

He didn’t answer, just gave her a look like that was the most painfully stupid question he’d ever heard because of course he did. Of course he changed her clothes. Of course he’d seen her naked. Of course he'd had sex with her. How could he _do_ that?

“I want a divorce,” she snapped, hoping spitefully that her words would _hurt_ him but he didn’t so much as blink.

“I knew you would say that.”

“You _knew_ I would say that. And you knew I'd be unhappy, but you did it anyway. I'm so _angry_ with you right now.”

The room was spinning. Bile churned in her stomach. Her eyes hurt. And it had nothing to do with being hungover. She couldn’t possibly be more disappointed in a human being, couldn’t possibly be more disappointed in _him._ Of all the people who could have been low enough to do something so awful, she never ever thought it might be _him._

“Why couldn’t you just ask me _out?”_ she lamented, fighting the tightness in her throat.“I would have said yes.”

If he had some witty rebuttal to that he didn’t offer it, just let her walk away, back to the bridal suite and the bride who needed her support.   

* * *

It was getting closer and closer to the day’s nuptials and the suite was starting to look more like a harem, lovely ladies lounging about, drinking wine and nibbling on fruit and chattering about all sorts of interesting things. The kinds of things that women could only talk about with other women, things men weren’t typically privy to.

“Cersei, you’ve been married a long time now.”

“Twenty-seven… _glorious_ years,” she confirmed, then took a sip of champagne.

“So what’s the secret to a lasting marriage?  Fabulous sex?”

“Please,” Cersei scoffed; slurred. “If fabulous sex was the secret to this marriage, I would have been totally doomed.”

“Oh my god,” Merry muttered into her glass while the group of women tittered.

“I’m just saying, most of the time I’m like…” Cersei mimicked looking at a pretend watch on her wrist while Sansa and Margaery exchanged amused looks; Myrcella took her mother’s champagne glass away.  

Sansa sure _hoped_ that low-quality sex couldn’t doom a marriage, otherwise Margaery was screwed.   _And not in the good way._ She kept those catty thoughts to herself, though- the last thing she needed to worry about was Margaery’s marriage, or Margaery’s sex life, not when she had her _own_ marriage to worry about, and whether or not her _own_ sex life would be fabulous. Or _had_ been fabulous, as the case may be. 

The thought had her burning from embarrassment all over again. What a disappointment. It wasn’t that she’d never imagined being with him, only that she thought she would be sober, thought she would remember it. Thought it would _mean_ something.

“Alright, ladies, ten more minutes to show time!”

Women jumped to action, flitting to the mirror for last-minute makeup touch-ups while Sansa made her way over to the bride.

“How you feeling, sweetie?”

“Good,” Margaery replied, smiling up at her. She looked beautiful- as always- with her hair piled neatly on her head and tiny white flowers tucked in around every curl, just enough makeup to make her look polished because Margie never really needed much makeup anyway. “Should probably pee while I have the chance, though.  Help me?”

“Ah, the glamorous life of a bridesmaid,” Sansa sighed dramatically and the two of them made their way to the lavatory, giggling.

Wrestling the gown’s many layers of tulle and satin so that the bride could pee was absurd but necessary and over quickly, and soon they were side-by-side in front of the bathroom mirror, just the two of them, inspecting their respective faces in comfortable silence.

 _Almost_ comfortable silence.

“He killed Ser Pounce.”

Sansa looked up sharply.  “What?”

“Joffrey,” she said simply, blank eyes still on her own reflection.  “He was mad I wasn’t answering his calls one night, so he came to my apartment and threw Ser Pounce out the window.”

“Oh, god, Margie. I thought Ser Pounce got hit by a car.”

She could still remember it, the way Margaery cried when she broke the news to Tommen, apologized repeatedly for not properly taking care of his cat.  _'I_ _don’t know how he got out. He must have slipped past me when I left for the movies.'_ It never occurred to her that she had been lying. Why would it?

“He’s awful, Sansa,” she muttered now, and the tears were starting to fall. “He insults me all the time, controls my every move. I’ve tried to be strong, but I feel like I’m dying.”

“You never said anything.”

“I _couldn’t._ We always told you to break up with him. I didn’t want you to tell me that, I didn’t want you to know. I wanted to make it work. I wanted to love him.”

“But you don’t.”

“I don’t,” she confirmed, turning to show Sansa a helpless look that she’d never ever worn before, not ever. “What do I do?”

“I can tell you what you _don’t_ do. You don’t marry him.”

Margaery shook her head. “Everyone’s here. Everyone’s waiting. How did I let this happen?”

“Stop,” Sansa said firmly and took her friend by the hands. “You’re doing the right thing here, don’t talk yourself out of it just because there’s guests. I’ll take care of them, you go back upstairs. Call the front desk, tell them you don’t want to be disturbed and you want a different room, then text me the room number. And don’t worry about it. I _mean_ it.”

“I really screwed up, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. You almost did, but you didn’t.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much for being here.”

“Oh, honey. I will _always_ be here for you. I love you, I want you to be happy.”

“I know. I want the same for you.”

“I know,” Sansa laughed, meeting the watery eyes of her friend- her very best friend in the whole wide world- but both women jumped in surprise when a knock sounded at the door.

“Is Margaery in there?” Loras’s muffled voice called.  “I need to talk to her.”

Sansa glanced at Margaery, who wiped the rest of the tears from her lashes and gave a firm nod.

When the door opened Loras walked in slowly, bringing a sick feeling in with him that cast a pall over the tiny bathroom.  Even Sansa was nervous.

“I’m sorry, Margie,” he said, expression grim.  “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Just tell me,” Margaery whispered, strong as always.

He did.  As quickly and efficiently as possible.  Poor Loras.  He surely thought they’d lost their minds when they erupted in hysterical, unbridled laughter at the news that Joffrey had run off and married a stripper.

* * *

Margaery’s ~~Wedding Reception~~ Celebration at Being Single was in full-swing only fifteen minutes later, music blaring, hors d'oeuvre passed around, and champagne being poured though Sansa had already resolved to never ever ever have alcohol ever again, not ever for the rest of her life. _Ever._ And even though Sansa had promised she would stay at the ex-bride’s side the entire time, Margaery had flitted about far too much for her to keep up with and she soon found herself at the overladen gift table, alone.  

Or _almost_ alone.

“You look not-at-all hungover,” Arianne said when she slid up to Sansa’s side. “Thanks for not throwing up on me.”

“Um, yeah… you’re welcome.”  

“You don’t remember, do you?” the woman hummed in amusement, cocking her head to the side then laughing loudly at Sansa’s lost expression. “You _really_ don’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Me taking your drunk ass to your room last night.”

“You _did?”_ she asked, not quite believing it, but Arianne’s brilliant smile insisted it was the truth. "I don't even remember _seeing_ you last night!"  

“You don’t remember drinking with me and Arys and the Hound last night?” she demanded, incredulous. “We were together for _hours._ Well, except for about half an hour when Arys and I… took a nap… but we came right back. Then I took you to your room. You really don’t remember? _”_  

Sansa shook her head because no, she _didn’t_ remember. “Did you _change_ me?”

“You changed yourself, you wacko. Said the dress was too delicate to sleep in.”

“It _is_ too delicate to sleep in,” she agreed numbly.

“Oh my god, you’re hilarious,” Arianne laughed again and patted her lightly on the arm. “No drinking tonight, alright?”   

“Yeah. Alright.”

 _Now_ she was alone. And even more confused than before. He hadn’t changed her, she’d changed herself, for reasons that were entirely _like_ herself, folding her clothes up like… well, exactly like how she normally would.  

Somehow, DrunkSansa was an awful lot like SoberSansa. Except for that whole getting-married-in-Vegas thing.

Sansa looked up at the head table to where her _husband_ sat, alone and watching her. Alright, so he hadn’t changed her clothes. She couldn’t blame him for _that_ one. But he still did an awful lot of _other_ things that weren’t exactly on the up and up, things that she would have a hard time getting over. Probably.

And yet there she was, heading to her own seat at the head table- alone- fishing out the ring he gave her and slipping it back onto her finger. It was a very pretty ring, she had to admit, and deserved to be seen, even if the texture of the vines magnified the light and made the gold wink at her, mocking her for her unexpectedly un-single status.

“Shut up,” she told it, then glanced back over at Sandor. Still watching her. Still alone. _What a shocker,_ she thought with wry amusement; then again, she was _also_ alone. But she didn’t _have_ to be. Neither one of them did, not really, and she made her way to his side of the table to rectify the problem, the weight of his eyes on her made it feel like she was walking underwater, a feeling that didn't ease up till she reached for his hand.    

“Dance with me?”

He winced… and groaned… and rolled his eyes. And she thought for sure that he was going to deny her and she would have to _insist_ , but ultimately the power of their matrimonial vows compelled him to his feet and onto the floor for their first dance as a married couple.

If you could even call it a dance.  He put his hands in the right places, true- one across the small of her back, the other holding hers up just like she’d learned at cotillion- but past that the man hardly moved, mostly just swayed in a sort of circular pattern.  It was a good start, though; she could work with this.     

“Margaery seems like she’s gonna be alright,” he rasped, eyes on the once-bride who was presently wrapped up in the arms of Sansa's older brother.  

“She’s _relieved._ Can you believe it?”

He didn’t answer, just continued with his barely-perceptible swaying that passed as dancing, fingers curling subtly along her spine and it felt... comfortable. Correct. It _would_ be that way, she supposed, it they had done what he said they had done, the memory of which had her blushing again and fidgeting nervously while the ring- her _wedding_ ring- winked in the lights. 

“Did I pick the rings?”

His eyes went wide at her question but he recovered quickly, shifting back to indifference as easily as flipping a coin. _“I_ did.”

“Were they the cheapest ones?” she asked, unsure of what answer she was hoping for- expensive rings would make her feel guilty, but the cheapest rings would make her feel… cheap.  

“No,” he said softly, a growly sigh that sent prickles over her skin. “They weren’t.”

“Then why did you pick them?”

“Looks like something you’d like.”

He said it so nonchalantly, so simply, as if it didn’t matter, as if he’d just told her he was having the chicken for dinner. But it sure as hell mattered to _her_ because… she actually _did_ like them.   

“Was it nice?” she asked, glancing up nervously, but when she saw the question in his eyes she clarified.  “The wedding.   _Our_ wedding.  Was it nice?”

His cheek twitched.  “Wasn’t very memorable.”

“I _wish_ I could remember.”

She really did. Not just because if she had been sober enough to remember later then she would have been sober enough to stop it, but because… it was her _wedding_ .  Oh, truly, it was a cliché that all girls dreamt of their wedding day, but she fit that cliché to a T, unfortunately, because she _had_ dreamt of it, had looked forward to it for far too long.  And now she couldn’t even _remember_ it.  No matter if it was awful, no matter what happened next, this would always be her first wedding, and she’d completely lost all memory of it in the bottom of a glass of merlot.

The wedding… and everything after.

“Sandor…” she began, dreading their next conversation.  It wasn’t really something she wanted to talk about, ever, but it was something that needed to be discussed.  “I… I’m not… _on_ anything.  If you know what I mean.  Did we… did we _use_ … something?”

“No,” he grumbled, for once looking a little guilty about the whole thing.  “We didn’t.”

“Hope it’s a boy,” she joked, though in truth she felt like crying. Oh god. Married? Possibly pregnant? This wasn’t her life, this was a show she watched one time on MTV. It was a complete and utter train wreck, and she had no idea how she would ever recover from it.

 _It won’t be so bad_ , a voice in her head told her, though she didn’t think she agreed. But even as she was thinking that yes, as a matter of fact, it _would_ be so bad, another part was wondering where they would live, if they’d get a bigger apartment or buy a house, if they could have a reception for all their friends when they got back home, if they would go on a honeymoon.  Maybe it was silly to think that way... but maybe it wasn't.  They were connected now, like it or not.  Maybe it _wouldn’t_ be so bad to make a go of it before they tore it all apart, before they even gave it a chance to work.

And while what the future held for them remained to be seen, for now her body stayed happily in the present.  She couldn’t deny that she was responding to his warmth, the closeness of him and how well they fit together, the way his hand traveled up her back to stroke lightly against her neck before drifting down again.  Like he was allowed to.  Like he _belonged_ there.

“You’re not angry anymore?”

“It’s been a really draining day,” she sighed, shrugged, because she actually _didn't_ feel soangry anymore; she'd scraped the bottom of the emotional barrel with Margaery and just couldn't muster the energy for anything else.  “I reserve the right to be angry later.”

Later, whenever that was. Wherever that was. When they were together, somewhere, as something. Husband and wife, maybe. Or maybe not. Just… later.

“We need to have a serious discussion, little bird,” he rasped, all business-as-usual, and she nodded at his chest because yes, of course they did. “Starting with why you’re so willing to believe everything people tell you.”

It took her only a few seconds to pick up what he was putting down, and she pushed roughly out of his embrace so she could see his eyes, his expression serious and no longer teasing.

“Wait… are we married?”

“No.”

“You lied?”

“I _never_ lie,” he shook his head, offended at the very suggestion.

“But you said…”

“I said you insisted. I never said I relented.”

“But… the rings.”

“I bought the rings because you wouldn’t shut up about it. You filled in the blanks yourself.”

Sansa glanced around at the other guests, who were all ignoring the way she and the Hound were just standing in the middle of the dance floor and talking to each other. Or… arguing with each other.

“Sandor… did you… did we… damn it, you know what I’m asking.”   

“Of course we didn’t, what kind of man do you take me for?”

“But you said we didn’t _use_ anything!”

“We didn’t,” he shrugged.

“And you said… you said we couldn’t get an annulment.”

“Because we’re not married.”

“So… we didn’t…” she waved her hands between them in what she considered a clear representation of the question she was asking, but he only rolled his eyes.   

“Someday you’re gonna have to use the words, you know.”

She ignored him.

“You said… you said I made you… _promises.”_

He snorted.  “You don’t know yourself at _all.”_

She turned to walk away from him- to _storm_ away from him- but he grabbed her by the wrist and swung her back into his arms, held her close against his chest, so close she couldn’t see his eyes anymore, could only hear the words he growled into her ear. The _promises_ she’d made to him. A promise to learn his favorite food and cook it every year on his birthday. A promise to do all the Christmas shopping herself, and to never make him dress up for Halloween. A promise to let him pick the restaurant, or the movie, or the vacation, but only half of the time. And a promise to be a good wife. And to always love him.  

He still sounded way too amused for her liking, way too happy to tell her the embarrassing things she’d said but… that actually _did_ sound like the kinds of promises she would make.  And it was weirdly comforting, to know that so much of herself had come through even though she was blitzed out of her mind.   

DrunkSansa really _was_ an awful lot like SoberSansa.

“So we’re not married. We’re..."

“Nothing,” he finished her sentence for her. “Just like always.”

It was all a misunderstanding.  It was an _orchestrated_ misunderstanding, true, but it was still just a misunderstanding. And a big part of her was annoyed that he let her believe it, had _encouraged_ her to believe it, even when she was panicking; but for the most part she was just really, _really_ relieved. Nothing had happened- everything was exactly as it had been 24 hours ago, no different. Well... except for that nagging sense of disappointment, of course. And the sadness she felt when he said they were nothing. And the warmth and comfort that was seeping into her from the arms still wrapped around her body, and the accompanying jumble of confusing emotions. Other than all _that..._

 _“Now_ are you angry?”

“Probably,” she confirmed, cause surely one of these emotions was anger. It was just… there was one thing she still didn’t understand. “You never said we slept together.”

“Nope.”

“And you never said we got married.”

“Still nope.”

“But you said you _wanted_ to.”

The arms around her stiffened then fell away completely... but he didn’t answer.

That was the part that kept coming back to her. He’d said it often enough when she first found out, but at the time she was angry that he would do something so selfish. But now… she just kept thinking how he wanted to, he _said_ he wanted to. He said he never lied. And he said he wanted to marry her.      

Her head was spinning, heart aching, because he also said he knew she would regret it. So he bought her a ring and pretended. He made DrunkSansa happy while ensuring SoberSansa would _also_ be happy, picked out a ring he thought she would like even though it didn’t mean anything, and he did it because… well, she thought maybe she knew the reason.

“Sansa?”

They turned reluctantly to the source of the interruption- Arya, one hand on her hip, the other hand pointing at the now-insignificant wedding ring on Sansa’s finger, expression something like what their mother used to wear when she was ‘so disappointed’ in them.

“What in seven hells is _that?”_

If people hadn’t looked before, they were definitely looking now, heads turning from all directions to watch this confrontation. Sansa’s instinct was to protest, to assure her sister that it wasn’t what she thought it was, to rip that ring off and declare for all that it was nothing but a sham. A joke. She’d been positively mortified by the whole thing, after all, terrified that someone would find out and think less of her for it, but now that her secret wasn’t even true anymore it somehow didn’t seem so shameful.

“We got married,” she lied loudly, throwing her arms up like she’d been busted. Arya’s teeth ground together and nose wrinkled, an act that made Sansa want to laugh though she showed her a straight, serious face instead. And all around them couples stopped dancing, music forgotten, mouths opening in shock at her admission.

 _“And_ I’m having his baby,” she lied again, louder this time. Over Arya’s shoulder Sansa could see Margaery slapping a hand over her mouth in surprise, Robb’s eyes narrowed to furious little lasers, and loud gasps echoed from the people around them even over the swelling strains of _Unchained Melody._

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go have sex with him,” she added, just for the hell of it. Then she took Sandor by the hand and led him off the dance floor, out of the reception hall, down the hallway, and into her room.

Eventually she would have to confess to her friends and family that she was only _joking,_ that everything she’d said out on the dance floor had been nothing but lies.

Except for the last part. That part was true.


End file.
